Happy hour, tonight.
The air smells crisp and cool after the rain, but no stars shine in the sky tonight. Cars roll by, sound of tyres splashing through small puddles of water. It would have made quite a calm and soothing atmosphere actually, if it were not for the house that reminds me of The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe, which has now transformed itself into a karaoke joint of sorts.
The children were yodelling at the top of their pre-pubescent voices and singing Mandarin oldies to their hearts’ content, regularly punching the night air with such burning enthusiasm. It was if they were setting a ground-breaking finale for an international singing competition.
What comes to mind, however, is more of an image of a young, merry bunch of drunkards attempting to carry a tune or two while swaying precariously out of a bar, bottles in their hands. One hiccups and topples over a railing by the road; another stumbles blindly into an alley and collapses into a pile of cardboxes.
But darn it: they sound so… happy. I am not quite pleased with that. Or maybe I am just envious that it takes so little to lift their spirits.
The neighbours, of course, have to stomach the off-key tunes, sudden chorus sing-a-longs, and eerie falsettos for the rest of the night.
Spread the joy, anyone?
The last thing I need is to be serenaded into a nightmare, thank you very much.
I wonder what does it take to make me happy.